


Fulminare

by riotboi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, Gen, Misunderstandings, Rating May Change, everyone is a jerk at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riotboi/pseuds/riotboi
Summary: Driven from her original unit, Agent Clea Summers is thrilled to get an opportunity to join the BAU, but the entire team gives her the cold shoulder. Under the weight of new cases and the dark secret that led her to the BAU in the first place, can Clea show her worth and change the minds of her colleagues? Or will she be forced to stand alone and speak her truth, a flash of lightening in the dark?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of things: I am hoping to write up mostly new, non-canon cases for the team in this work. However, there may be a few references dropped in to help put the story into context. 
> 
> That being said, this is mostly settled in the Season 4-5 time range, when the BAU was under a lot of scrutiny from the bureaucratic muckety-mucks. Included in those seasons is also the short-lived addition of Agent Jordan Todd. To be honest, although it isn't ever outright aggressive, I feel like the team's cliquishness really comes to the fore when she joins and I always thought there was some pretty unprofessional behavior on all fronts. 
> 
> On that note, yes, everyone is a dickbag at the beginning of this. It's not because I don't love them. And they will definitely improve as time goes on! There might even be a romance eventually, because I'm trash like that, but everyone will need to be redeemed before that happens. Who will it be? When will it happen? Will it be offscreen or onscreen? Who knows. If/when we get there, I'll update the rating. Honestly, just kind of playing this story by ear.

Chapter 1

No one in the BAU looked up as Clea walked in. They weren’t hunched over their desks, noses to paper either. The bullpen was a mess of chaotic energy, far more than most FBI divisions could boast this early in the morning. Coffee cups jostled past precarious stacks of folders, greetings were shouted at coworkers across the room, and a general hum of discussion resonated up to the industrial ceiling, bouncing off of exposed pipes and rails cacophonously. Compared to the anti-terrorism unit she had just come from, to Agent Clea Summers this was a dream. Everyone looked like they were genuinely excited to see each other even though, knowing how the FBI generally functioned, they had probably only left the office ten hours before. The smiles were wide, the banter well worn, and the atmosphere engaged. 

It was perfect. As nervous as Clea was about making a good first impression, she was also quietly thrilled. Getting a position in the BAU was a dream, not simply because her talents could be applied so much more directly here but because even before the situation in Anti-Terrorism had devolved she only had one person she relied on and called a friend. 

“Oh, excuse me, sugar.” A voluptuous blonde woman coated in costume jewelry bumped past Clea, who was standing stock still in the doorway. “Were you looking for anyone in particular?”

“Yes, sorry, I was zoning out.” Clea smiled and extended a hand, which the woman enthusiastically shook. “Agent Clea Summers, I need to report to SSA Hotchner.”

The blonde dropped her hand. As if silenced by an evil witch’s enchantment, the rest of the conversation petered out as well, although Clea could have sworn the racket would have prevented anyone other than the blonde from hearing her.

“Of course.” To her credit the bubbly blonde recovered quickly. “Hotch, that is, Agent Hotchner’s office is up here.” 

Clea followed her escort up a small flight of stairs to the first office overlooking the bullpen. She probably could have figured it out on her own, but clearly that ship had sailed. Eyes followed her up to the closed door and Clea tried to ignore the rising feeling of being a squirrel dropped into yard full of dogs. 

She turned to thank the woman but her blonde companion was already scurrying down the stairs to confer with a bald agent that looked like a statue of Adonis come to life. Putting on her best “I am a professional and nothing weird you do can throw me off” face, Clea rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

The voice was rich, warm, and authoritative. When Clea entered she found the face matched the voice. So this was SSA Hotchner. She had seen him in the halls but never put a name to the face. Intense eyes and a furrowed brow, she had often giggled to Michael, her singular friend from Anti-Terrorism, that every time they passed in the halls she wanted to beg forgiveness for whatever she had done to make him frown like that. Michael knew she meant it in an extremely naughty way too. But now SSA Hotchner, aka the Disappointed Dom of the Sixth Floor, was her boss. And his scowl was deeper than ever.

Be professional, be dispassionate, Clea reminded herself in the face of such obvious disapprobation. So she smiled lightly and walked forward, hand outstretched. “I'm Agent Summers, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

To her slight relief SSA Hotchner didn’t drop her hand like a snake, the way the blonde had. But he didn’t try to open up any polite conversation either.

“Please, sit.”

“I ran into your tech on the way in, she seems very sweet.” Clea launched as an opening salvo, hoping he would take the proffered olive branch.

“Penelope Garcia. Indeed. Had you met before?”

“No, but...” Clea was going to say that she hoped they would get to know each other in the future but SSA Hotchner interrupted, not even bothering to look up from her file, open in front of him.

“Then how did you know she was our tech?”

“She’s a little flashy for a field agent.”

The icy stare that flicked up to meet her eyes made Clea gulp.

“That is, well, there’s a reason civilians call us ‘suits’ right? No matter how interesting the agent is in their personal life, I’ve seen very few who translate that into massive rhinestone brooches in the shape of flying saucers. Techs, at least in Anti-terrorism, had the option to show their individuality a little more overtly.”

“So you made an assumption?”

“I made an educated guess,” Clea raised her chin a little defiantly. “And clearly it wasn’t wholly unsupported since you knew who I was talking about even though I didn’t know her name.”

SSA Hotchner didn’t respond directly, just looked coolly down and pulled another sheet out of the Manila folder. “So, tell me why you think the BAU needs a forensics expert. By the time we show up most of our subjects have been through a thorough autopsy with the local medical examiner.”

“That may be true but in 87.62% of your cases another murder is committed and discovered while you are on the scene. As you are, at that point, already in charge of the investigation it makes sense to have a forensic analyst on hand to perform the autopsy, especially if that person is already aware of your profile and other newly gathered evidence.” Clea was very proud she had managed to pull together such a precise number, not having access to the vast majority of the BAU's case files and having to go primarily off of overviews.

Her new boss merely grunted in what Clea had to assume was an acknowledgment of her plainly correct argument, because he once again changed topics. “How is Chief Strauss these days?”

“Excuse me?”

“Erin Strauss was, I believe, the one who recommended you for this position, was she not?”

The question was pointed but Agent Hotchner kept his tone light and clipped. Not a good sign for his relationship with their mutual superior then. Clea had been surprised that Strauss had taken her up on her request to move to the BAU, all things considered, it had seemed too good to be true. Perhaps this was the one time it would have been reasonable to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“That is correct, sir.” Well, it’s not like she could lie about something like that. “She said it would be a...change of scene.”

“Indeed.” Abruptly ending one of the most awkward interviews of her life, SSA Hotchner stood and motioned for Clea to follow him. 

She followed him out onto the raised walkway overlooking the field agents’ desks and the chatter which had once again risen to a fever pitch, hushed. Dozen of sharp eyes dissected her as she might a cadaver on a slab. 

“Everyone, this is Agent Clea Summers. She is joining us from Anti-terrorism with a specialty in forensic pathology. Please, make her feel welcome. Prentiss, come show her around.”

Prentiss turned out to be Agent Emily Prentiss, a serious looking woman with serious looking bangs that she stared at Clea most suspiciously from under. But Clea had seen her laughing with the Adonis as she walked in, so clearly the attitude was only surface deep. She hoped. 

Agent Prentiss quickly introduced the other members of the BAU team, rattling names off at a speed that Clea thought had to be part of some newbie hazing. Sitting next to her was Doctor Reid, boyishly handsome and with far less control over his expressions than the others. Clea decided he would be who she looked at for explanations of any further weird behavior, as his face seemed to hold no secrets. Then there was Agent Morgan, the Adonis. He looked her once over and then, finding her wanting in some unspoken quality, turned to his desk without a word. 

“Our public liaison, Jennifer Jareau, is in her office, as is Agent Rossi, you’ll meet them later. And you’ve already met Garcia, she’ll have settled into her cave for the morning as well. Coffee’s over there,” Prentiss threw an arm lazily to the vague right side of the office, indicating any number of open doorways which could lead to coffee, “And bathrooms are down the hall. We work on our own until JJ comes to us with a new case, so whatever you get up to in the mean time is your own business, but don’t be late when she calls us in for a case.”

The ‘whatever you get up to’ was said with such attitude it was obvious Agent Prentiss already had assumptions about Clea’s down time activities and Clea blushed. Strauss had said no one knew anything, outside of Anti-terrorism and the immediate chain of command? 

But Agent Prentiss turned and sat down next to Agent Morgan without another word. Feeling very much like she no longer wanted to be in the same room as these standoffish assholes anymore, Clea fled to find the break room and the promised coffee. No one was in the sparsely furnished break room when she found it and Clea slumped against the beige laminate countertop with a sigh. So much for first impressions!

“They’re all a bit intimidating, huh?” 

Clea blinked and looked up. The kindest face she had seen all day was smiling down at her sympathetically. 

“August Zhou,” the man said, holding out his hand. He was middle aged; a few flecks of grey streaking like comets across the black expanse of his neatly clipped hair. “I do a lot of the background research and support.”

“You were a field agent once though,” Clea said before she could stop herself. She had already made a terrible impression on these folks some how; she didn’t need her runaway mouth to get her into more trouble. 

Agent Zhou blinked at her, once, slowly like a snake, and then his smile widened. “Yes, once upon a time. But in one of the white-collar divisions. Not nearly as exciting as what these guys get up to.”

He didn’t ask her how she knew and Clea didn’t know if she would be able to explain it. It was so much easier to explain her split second judgments with corpses; their secrets were physical and obvious to anyone with the appropriate training. But people she often found herself making split second judgments of without any way of articulating why, though her conclusions were almost never wrong. It frustrated most people and, she suspected, would really annoy people who did behavioral analysis for a living. She’d have to keep her mouth in check. Fortunately, August didn’t seem to mind as he grabbed a cup from the shelf to her left and started a new batch of coffee in the pot. 

“Did you bring your own mug?” He asked. “If not, we do have some we keep for guests on the top shelf. Just make sure you wash and return it.”

Clea looked up at and saw a few battered FBI mugs a few inches out of reach.

August chuckled and, without her having to ask, plucked one down for her. “A little short for a field agent, aren’t you?”

“They have to request a step stool at all of the medical examiner’s offices for me, I’m sure it’s very embarrassing for the FBI,” Clea agreed with a sardonic twist of her lips. August laughed and she felt her shoulders loosen for the first time that morning. Not that she was particularly short; Clea was the tallest person in her family she was often happy to note, but standing at an average 5’5” that wasn’t much to brag about. The top shelf was definitely out of her reach.

The rest of the day passed very quietly. Like a bad dream about high school, Clea noticed that the office interacted loudly but would quiet down every time she entered the room. She attempted to shrug it off. There were pens and folders to be unpacked and placed carefully exactly where she liked them. She also needed to send a string of emails, letting people who had reached out over the weekend know that she was no longer with Anti-terrorism and who to reach out to within that department. No one ate lunch with her, but that was fine. She was an adult and she didn’t need...aww hell, it would be nice to be welcomed into the group. 

August was nice but he had clearly been with the BAU for many, many years. He was polite but that didn’t make her his new best friend. Everyone already had ‘their people’. Clea tried to remind herself, halfway through her frankly depressing kimbap. She had made it yesterday and the fridge had turned the rice crunchy and hard. 

Coming into an established group was always hard and she just needed to take it one day at a time. They would see the benefit of having her on the team and eventually everyone would warm up to one another. Assuming they didn’t already know the real reason she had been foisted upon them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the week from Hell, Clea and the team get their first new assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get our first case! Shocking no one, I wrote this while re-watching Hannibal, so please excuse the art hoe nonsense. If you are vaguely squeamish, be warned, although I don't think any of the gore is particularly offensive for people who watch crime shows regularly.

Chapter 2

But the days didn’t get better. The next morning was the same as the first, a pall falling over the huddled agents as she walked in. Agent Zhou engaged her in polite small talk by the coffee maker, but that was it. On tenterhooks, not wanting to be away from her desk in case they got called to a crime scene, Clea turned down Michael’s invite to the cafeteria for lunch and miserably worked her way through another meal of leftovers at her desk. 

By Friday though, she was beginning to run out of busy work. She had set herself the task of going back through old BAU cases to see if any of the forensic evidence would have helped lead to a break in the case sooner. She wanted to know what it would be helpful to look for and, although she didn’t want to wave it in anyone’s face, it would be nice to have a couple pieces of ammo in her back pocket if someone tried to pull the ‘we don’t need you here’ card again. 

The frigid response she had received when she asked to look at the old case files was intense, however. Delicate blonde Agent Jareau, who kept the files compiled neatly in a storeroom, was absolutely livid every time Clea had knocked on her door to ask for another boxful. She hadn’t seen SSA Hotchner again, although his light was on when she got there every morning and still on when she left every night. And the famous Agent Rossi blanked her in the break room every afternoon at two when they both went in for a cup of tea. On Thursday Clea had decided to wait until he was finished to go get her habitual cup. It was a small concession to avoid two minutes of agonizing awkwardness. 

So Friday, up to her eyeballs in old case files and sick to death of being watched like sticky fingered child in an antique store, Clea took the first excuse she could find to get out of the office. She absolutely raced downstairs to the morgue and cold storage area.

“Clea! Haven’t seen you down here in ages!” 

The exquisite relief of being greeted cheerfully made Clea positively dizzy. Agent Vera Greer smiled up at Clea, elbow deep in a chest cavity. 

“Snap on some gloves and grab an apron, wouldn’t want to ruin your snappy little suit.”

“Getting blood out of this shirt would be the most exciting thing I’ve done all week,” Clea laughed. 

“I thought the BAU was the place to be? They’ve got their own jet! Thought you would be zipping around the US right now, sipping on bubbly water.” 

“Nope,” Clea let the ‘p’ pop expressively as she came round to the other side of the examining table. “Haven’t done jack all week except look through old case files. What was it you wanted me to look at?”

“Girl, I wanted you down here because I haven’t seen you in a thousand years, not because I really needed help. But, if you wanna get dirty, help me get the intestines out so they can be weighed.”

Clea laughed and pretended to gag. Intestines were, unsurprisingly, slippery little fuckers that liked to try and escape as they were dragged from their nestled little spot in the abdomen to the scales. 

“You’ve been upstairs too long, if you can’t handle the smell,” Vera teased. 

“Maybe I have. They better give me something to do or I’ll forget everything!”

“Agent Summers?” 

Clea turned, yards of large intestine spilling out over her arms. Agent Jareau looked ready to be sick. 

“Sorry, just a second.” Clea deposited the organs as neatly as she could and then turned back. “I didn’t hear my phone go off, I’m so sorry.”

“We have a case, you need to get up to the office.” Agent Jareau didn’t wait, turning on her heel and marching back to the elevators in the lobby. 

“Well, fuck, isn’t she just a little ray of sunshine?” Vera muttered. “Guess I’m loosing my little helper then, huh?”

“Yeah, looks like I better go. I’ll call you after we get back, ok? Let’s go to that little Thai place, it’s been too long since we caught up.”

“You’re damn right! Now run, she didn’t sound like they were gonna wait.”

And run Clea did. When she burst into the upstairs briefing room Garcia was already halfway though describing the murder scene, large graphic pictures projected onto a screen at the front. All of the agents looked up and Clea coughed.

“Sorry for being late.”

“Try to answer your phone next time, we like to brief and be in the air within half an hour,” Agent Hotchner’s tone was measured but Clea felt the weight of his disapproval. 

“Of course.” Clea grabbed a spare file off the table and then settled into a chair along the wall, as there were no empty seats at the briefing table. She wasn’t going to push the fact that she had checked her phone on the way up and hadn’t had any missed calls. Later she would have to have a very awkward conversation with Agent Jareau, but she didn’t want to call anyone out in public. 

The jet was unsurprisingly an absolute treat. Not that any of the other agents seemed to notice. They were probably used to it by now, but Clea settled into one of the plush leather seats with relish. Even if everyone here was a dick, she was going to enjoy the luxury. 

They were in the air for about an hour when SSA Hotchner called everyone’s attention.

“We’ll be in Atlanta in about an hour, it’s another forty five minutes to Petersburg. Has everyone had a chance to look at the file on the Jacksons?”

“The unsub is clearly organized,” Doctor Reid exclaimed before anyone else could speak. “The crime scene is arranged extremely carefully, it looks almost like a painting.”

“Judith beheading Holofernes,” Clea said. And then, when the entire plane turned to look at her she added, “Caravaggio, not Artemisia Gentilesci.”

“Leave it to a serial killer to appreciate Caravaggio.” 

Clea almost laughed at the doctor’s quip but morphed the noise quickly into a cough as Agent Hotchner turned from Doctor Reid to glare at her. “Did you notice anything about the bodies, Agent Summers? That is supposed to be your area of expertise, although it seems you are also an art critic.” 

Only a very strong desire not to get fired for assaulting her superior kept Clea’s face blank and her ass in her seat. “None of the pictures are high enough resolution for me to make any determinations here, if it would be possible to drop me at the medical examiner’s office, I would be happy to do my own analysis.”

“Fine. JJ, you and Reid go to the police station in Petersburg and start combing through the other files. Emily, go with Rossi to the Jackson’s home, see if there is anything police missed. Morgan and I will go to the new crime scene.”

“Wait, there’s a new one? Have they moved the bodies? I should go with...”

“Agent Summers, JJ and Reid will drop you off. Had you been at the briefing on time you would know that we already had another murder on our hands. As it is, you may as well examine the Jacksons and wait for the new victims bodies to be delivered to the M.E.” 

To his credit, Doctor Reid’s face betrayed his shock at SSA Hotchner’s rudeness. Clea could almost like him for it, although since he clearly wouldn’t go against his superior officer his outrage would do her little good. She tried to casually go back to reexamining her folder, hoping that the plane full of behavioral analysts would not be able to read her strong blush, tight jaw, and clenched hands.

Sadly, for the Jacksons, without any idea what the team was thinking about the killer, Clea didn’t have much to do at the coroner’s office except review the reports. Arthur Jackson, 57, had been nearly beheaded by the absolutely massive cleaver that had been found in his twenty year old daughter’s rigor clenched grasp. The pair had been seated, although slumped over a little in death, but the tightly wrapped ropes the unsub used to hold their bodies in place had kept the couple in situ so that when the cops finally arrived they had looked just like the painting. Mrs. Susan Jackson was propped up behind, even in death her face showing the utter horror, both of the painting and the situation she found herself in at her last moments. 

“It was cleverly done,” Dr. Parrish, the M.E. said as she walked Clea through the file. A tall, angular woman with sharp, no-nonsense eyes, Clea liked her immediately. She reminded her of one of her undergraduate physical anthropology professors, who had scared the hell out of her for about a month before Clea got up the nerve to go to her office hours and found Professor Barnes giving a painfully accurate impression of the Department Head. “Mrs. Jackson and Alice, their daughter, injected with a paralyzing agent, then staged, forced to watch their father die, and then the killer put the knife into Alice’s frozen hands.”

“Jesus.” Clea breathed. 

‘Right? It’s pretty depraved. The next two should be here in about half an hour. Do you mind if I get some paperwork done? You’re welcome to keep examining the bodies, they’re out in the examination room.”

Clea found them as promised, each in an unzipped body bag, ready to be put back into the freezer. Two puncture wounds each on Susan and Alice Jackson’s necks were the only damage they sustained. One needle to paralyze, one with another cocktail, to kill. Mr. Jackson had not faired so well. Clea found that the wound ran from just the left of the windpipe across and back towards the juncture with the shoulder, pushing back nearly to the spine. 

Again she pulled the photos of the undisturbed crime scene to put everything into context. But...that seems unlikely, she thought, leaning into a close up of Alice and her father.

“The latest victims are here already! Are you going to run the autopsy or shall I?” Doctor Parrish called out from the front office.

“I’ll assist, if that works for you,” Clea called back, annoyed that her concentration had been broken. Apparently it hadn’t shown in her voice because Doctor Parrish walked in, all smiles.

“That sounds perfect. I gotta be honest, I thought the FBI would be a lot pushier.” 

“Technically, we’re just here to consult. That being said, I’m sure we can be pushy when we wanna be,” Clea smiled. They quickly slid the Jacksons back into their refrigerated alcoves and moved out fresh tables to receive the new victims.

To Clea’s surprise, Hotchner and Morgan came in with the body bags.

“We’re headed back to the police station, Agent Summers. When you are ready to be picked up, call and we’ll send ‘round a car. Have you found anything yet?”

“All do respect sir, she hasn’t even been here a full fifteen minutes. I’ll send her back to you with a full write up on the new victims.” Agent Hotchner blinked, as surprised as Clea was at Doctor Parrish’s firm defense. 

The stern agent pulled himself together quickly, however, and turned to leave calling over his shoulder, “As quickly as possible, thank you.”

Morgan followed after but not after shooting Clea a look of sardonic surprise. 

“You can be pushy when you wanna be, huh?” Doctor Parrish laughed as she handed a fresh pair of gloves over to Clea. “Your boss certainly wanted to be.”

“He’s very...driven.” Clea replied. 

“That’s what you call it in the FBI? I call it being a dick. Now, come on and help me get this guy up onto the table.”

It was nearly four hours later when the police cruiser pulled up outside the examiner’s office to escort Clea. There had only been two bodies this time, but one was completely decapitated and getting everything cleaned up and notated had taken forever. Apparently, according to the poor officer designated to be her chauffeur, the BAU had already called it a night and were off to their hotel. 

He dropped her in front of the Holiday Inn with a wave and Clea sighed. That was probably the best day she was going to have on this case and she had been poking through the cavities of beheaded victims. Inside would be all of her new comrades and, oh, how she did not want to deal with any of them. In the lobby though, Hotchner sat alone in one of the lounge chairs, impatiently checking his watch.

“Agent Hotchner,” Clea walked up and handed him the folder with the M.E.’s findings. “Did you all find anything relevant at the crime scenes?”

“That remains to be seen,” He muttered, unhelpfully. “Here are pictures of scene Morgan and I visited and your room key. We will leave for the police station at 7am sharp, please be ready. If you need a ride back to the coroner’s office, we can drop you on the way.”

Then he was gone, up and off towards the elevators at a smart march, clearly not waiting for her. The desk clerk kindly told her which room her key belonged to, a fact Agent Hotchner had completely not bothered with, and also let her know that her belongings were already up there. To Clea’s great relief her duffle bag was, in fact, sitting on the luggage rack of Room 309 when she arrived. At this point she wasn’t putting anything past her coworkers, even petty bullshit like ‘loosing’ her luggage.

“Thank fuck,” Clea groaned. It was time for a shower, as hot as she could get it. The file Hotchner had given her lay, forgotten on the second twin bed for almost an hour as she conditioned and detangled her waist length black waves and ordered room service. There was no way she was going to bed smelling like a morgue, if she could help it. And she wouldn’t have the brainpower to process what was in that file if she didn’t consume at least a few calories. Getting sick eating while looking at crime scene photos wasn’t a problem though, nearly ten years into her chosen profession and that problem was long gone. 

At long last her hair was back in a simple plait down her back, the way she wore it pretty much day in and day out, and there was a sad looking burger next to some soggy fries waiting for her to dig in with an enthusiasm Clea knew the food didn’t merit. But she was hungry dammit! Pretzels on the plane had not substituted for lunch to her satisfaction and now it was nearly 9pm. 

She settled onto the creaky mattress with the Manila folder. The eternal optimist in her said that if she showed up tomorrow morning with a few brilliant observations to add to the search for this killer, maybe her colleagues would start treating her...well...like a colleague and less like an intruder. The pessimist in her said that if she didn’t show up with a few brilliant observations she would be benched till the end of time and end up looking like the Crypt Keeper, chained to a desk until she was desiccated and grey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's her first case with the BAU and Clea is determined to prove herself. Will she get the chance or will her time at the BAU be over before it ever really began?

Chapter 3

No matter where you were, be it a rural town in Georgia or downtown L.A., police station coffee tasted the same. Terrible. The Petersburg police had shoved them unceremoniously into a cramped basement storage room with a white board and not enough chairs. Once again Clea found herself on the outs with the seating arrangement and was nursing her shitty coffee, leaning against a rusty file cabinet when Hotchner walked in. 

He started without so much as a good morning, “Rossi, take Emily to the latest scene give it and the neighbors a once over. Someone may have seen something. Morgan, you and I are going upstairs to interview the Jackson’s relatives. Reid, stay here with JJ and see if we can start a geographic profile. Let me stress that time is of the essence. We don’t have much to go on yet and despite how elaborate these crime scenes are, the unsub is only taking a few days breather in between each. We could have new bodies any day now.”

“Actually, sir, could I say something before we all split up?” Clea stepped forward as chairs scrapped against the concrete floor.

“If you must, agent, quickly.”

Oh, one day. One day she was going to knock that sanctimonious look right off his fucking face. But not today. “I noticed something on the photos of the Jacksons and then later on the body of Timothy Barnes from yesterday.”

The commotion stopped and everyone turned to look at least, Clea was thankful they were at least going to pay attention. 

“I thought you didn’t see anything on the photos,” Agent Hotchner asked.

“It didn’t occur to me until I was looking at the bodies. Look here, the cut on Mr. Jackson’s neck goes almost all the way to the back of his head. However, the arterial spray is mostly out and forward. There is a little on Alice but not nearly as much as I would expect. Her hand and forearm at least should be completely coated. And very surprisingly, Timothy only had one needle mark in his neck. Alice and Susan both had two, one as a paralytic and one to kill.”

“So, what are you saying?” Morgan looked confused but Clea could see that Doctor Reid was starting to put the same dots together that she did. 

“The arterial spray on Timothy is consistent for him having done the beheading, even though he was a very slight boy. This is not an easy thing to do, necks are incredibly strong and the spinal column takes a lot of force to sever. We see the hacking and sawing required on Ed Barnes’ neck. It would take a lot of determination for a weak twelve year old like Timothy to accomplish this.”

“So you’re saying that Timothy was the one who killed his father, not the unsub.” Hotch clarified.

“I’m saying that they both did. I think Alice also began the process of killing her father, but wasn’t able to complete the task and so the unsub took over. He provided the brunt of the force and also took most of the blood spray. Alice would have been paralyzed after she failed to make the killing blow, but before the unsub finished the job.”

“Why?” It was simple question without a simple answer. Clea opened her mouth but Reid beat her to it.

“They must have been killing the fathers for a reason. The unsub thinks he’s giving Alice and Timothy the chance to get revenge! Because Timothy was willing and able the unsub didn’t feel the need to paralyze him, heck, Timothy probably thought that if he performed as the unsub requested that he might live. Alice tried, but when she couldn’t, the unsub couldn’t take the chance that the deed would be left undone so he paralyzed her and then stepped in.”

“Revenge?” Morgan said, not convinced.

“Judith and Holofernes, Judith is beheading her rapist,” Clea cut in, excited that Reid had caught on. “And the latest killing looks to me like another Caravaggio...”

“David and the Head of Goliath,” Reid interjected.

“Exactly. Both David and Judith have reason to kill the other people in their paintings. Maybe this unsub wants to give these people their own chance?” Clea finished. She was almost winded from speaking so quickly.

Hotchner was staring at her, unreadable. Then, sharply, he nodded. “Morgan, you and I are still going to do those interviews. Rossi, Emily, lets start going through unsolved child abuse cases or cases where parents have died and the children were found suspect. Go back 20, 30 years if you can. This unsub is too meticulous to be in his twenties or thirties. Clea, stay and conference in Garcia. I want to know how someone gets ahold of the drug cocktails we saw present.”

It was about as far from a ringing endorsement as one could get but Clea was still thrilled. No one had blatantly rejected her ideas, in fact, the smartest member of the team seemed to be on board, and she had been deemed worthy of her first name instead of ‘Agent Summers’ said in a disapproving voice. Not to mention, she now had a job assigned for the day. It hadn’t escaped her attention that Agent Hotchner had conveniently forgotten to give her something to do at the beginning of their briefing. 

“The Glorious Gorgeous Garcia, here to take your questions, my love!” Clea had to laugh at the techie’s antics.

“Unfortunately, it’s just me, Garcia, not your Adonis.”

“Oh! Agent Summers, I wasn’t expecting...what can I do for you?”

“I need you to look up a couple of drug cocktails for me. Where they can be bought and whether they have more easily available dupes.”

“Aaaaaand I bet you’d like me to look into whether large quantities of such have been purchased in the surrounding areas lately?” If she wasn’t so dang adorable it would have sounded smug.

“That’s pretty much right! I’ll shoot you over a list. Thank you very much,” Clea grinned down at the phone. Garcia would be a fun person to know, if she could break the group’s ice. 

“That was a good catch, Clea,” Doctor Reid said when she got off the phone.

“Yeah, great catch,” JJ said, rolling her eyes. She shot Clea the half smile high school mean girls used in front of principals when they were called in for bullying. 

“I mean it, I—“ JJ smacked the brainiac over the head with a folder as she passed behind him and out into the hall. 

“Sorry,” Reid picked up after the door was closed. “She thinks I have a crush on you.”

“Why, because you’re the only one here that doesn’t treat me like I’m covered in contagious oozing sores?” Clea sniped. She immediately regretted giving in to the bitterness as she watched the young Doctor clench up and look embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, pathetically. “We’ve got work to do, come on.”

She only lasted a minute in silence before, “Why did Agent Hotchner want people to look into old child abuse cases?”

“A lot of the time we find that killers mirror things that happened to them as children or young adults.” Reid replied without looking up.

“So this guy probably killed his parents,” Clea mused.

“Or he didn’t get the chance. It could be the other thing that drives him.”

“Other thing?” Clea asked, puzzled.

“You said it yourself, revenge. Even the motivation of being able to live wouldn’t be enough for a lot of twelve years old to hack off their father’s heads, there was probably an underlying resentment or issue that the unsub sees and thinks he can help provide closure in a way he wishes he could do for himself.”

Clea hadn’t though about that. She had specifically not thought about it, in fact, the minute the possibility had occurred to her. She wished she could unthink it. Spencer seemed to notice her discomfort because he apologized with a shrug.

“Sorry, a lot of things become kind of normalized in this job. Not that it isn’t still horrific, but we’re all just used to talking about it now.”

Clea could understand that, the guys in Anti-Terrorism could talk about entire cities being blown off the face of the planet over pizza and beer. Heck, she definitely understood. “I get it,” she smiled slightly, despite still feeling a little sick to her stomach. “I spend my days weighing out organs like a latter day Anubis, most people can’t understand how I got used to that either.”

The day brought no progress and by the next morning, Clea was hanging out upstairs as much as possible to avoid the sour attitudes of her colleagues. She propped a file open on top of the water cooler and sipped from the little disposable cones as she perused. 

“They kick you out?”

The cop who had picked her up from the coroner’s office the first day smiled winningly at her as he filled up his own flimsy little cup. 

“I just needed a little peace and quiet,” Clea said, tactfully, she thought. 

“The bullpen is quieter than your little conference room downstairs? They must all be screaming.” The cop, Vincent Ng, if Clea remembered correctly was a little too handsome to be smiling at her like that without winning a smile back. 

“You call that a conference room? I thought it was extra lock up space,” Clea teased. 

“Yeah, the Chief can be a little passive aggressive,” Officer Ng laughed into his cup. “For real though, your group. I don’t know what’s going on with all of you, but I’ve been driving around with all of these guys and they straight up do not like you. I thought it was weird since, the one time I got to meet you, you were so polite.”

“I’m new,” Clea tried to shrug like that explained everything. “A team this tight knit, they’re going to have difficulty accepting the new girl.”

Officer Ng leaned in conspiratorially, “they think you’re a spy.”

Shocked, Clea tipped her head back and laughed. Officer Ng laughed too, his warm, dark eyes never leaving her. 

“Sorry,” Clea said, when she got herself under control. “Wrong agency, if you want spies you ask the CIA.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard. You don’t seem like much of spy to me.”

“Oh? You think I’m not up to the job?”

“I think you’re too beautiful, how would you disappear into a crowd?”

“Agent Summers!” Clea nearly gave herself whiplash, jerking away from Officer Ng’s flirtatious little smirk to face Agent Hotchner, glowering as per usual. “We’ve been looking for you, I need all hands.”

“Of course, sir.” Clea slipped past Officer Ng, where he had boxed her in between the counter and the water cooler and followed Agent Hotchner. Vincent Ng looked very self-satisfied, she noticed. Really thought he hit it out of the ballpark with that one. Not that he wasn’t cute...

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t fraternize with the police while we are on missions,” Agent Hotchner said as they exited the building and stepped into the circle of BAU waiting for them. “Have a little professionalism, please.”

Clea didn’t know how to respond. Every one of her colleagues was staring; they had heard every word of that reprimand. She was never going to salvage any of these relationships, was she? Did she even want to, at this point? The BAU was a dream job at the Bureau. They were funded, they were brilliant, they solved their cases at a rate most departments could only fantasize about. And they needed her. Clea had been shocked when Strauss had told her that they didn’t have a resident forensics specialist. She could bring so much to the table, if they would let her. That was looking increasingly unlikely.

She hopped into the SUV Hotchner indicated she should take, with him and Morgan. Others took the second car and turned in the opposite direction when they got to they first stop light. 

“We’ve had a break,” Hotchner decided about ten minutes into the drive to fill her in. “There is a man, buying up the drugs you and Garcia were looking into. He lives here in Petersburg but he works in Atlanta, he’s security at one of the art museums. Everyone else is headed to his house, but we’ll be heading to the museum in case he is there. You are cleared for firearms, yes?”

He knew damn well she was. Clea was just as much a field agent as anyone else in this crew, more, if you looked at Doctor Reid who she had heard only was allowed in the field due to a special dispensation. But all she said was, “yes sir.”

“Good. You are not to engage. You will be covering Morgan and I. Here’s a picture of him, it’s not terribly recent but no more than a few years off.”

The picture he handed back to Clea made her skin crawl. Long, stringy hair parted in the middle over a strong brow and sinister eyes like Rasputin. The unsub gazed up from under his brows front the back row of a group photo, staff from the museum, apparently. Did no one else feel the malevolence he radiated from the back row? How did this man go through life without everyone thinking, dear god, there goes a monster? 

“What’s his name?” Clea asked.

“Maurice Smalls,” Morgan replied, not bothering to turn around. Clea wasn’t entirely sure he had looked at her directly since the first day she arrived. “Just try to stay on the sidelines, Hotch and I can handle it if he’s there.”

Maurice Smalls, however, didn’t appear to be at work that day. Hotch and Morgan had ‘surreptitiously’ combed through all the galleries, halls, and they had moved onto staff areas, Clea following meekly behind. Well, not entirely meekly, her head was full of saucy thoughts poking fun at her coworkers for being so transparently law enforcement. No one passing by these men thought they were here for the art. Clea had seen at least three small groups of stoned teenagers turn and flee as they entered different galleries, their marijuana haze not enough to turn Hotch and Morgan from FBI agents to casual art enthusiasts. 

They combed through offices on the lowest floor, ducking in and out of darkened rooms, frightening the occasional art restoration expert or historian. Clea stayed, as directed, about fifteen feet behind the two men. Her hand was on her gun, unclipped from its holster but undrawn. Hotch and Morgan had turned a corner ahead of her when Clea saw him. Smalls was holding a massive blade, it must have been machete, close to his side. He had slunk out of the men’s toilet that Morgan had just checked. God only knew where he had been hiding. 

Agent Hotchner and Morgan couldn’t be more than a few feet in front of him, although Clea couldn’t see. She stayed stock still, praying that Smalls didn’t notice her. It would only work if he didn’t notice until it was too late. Right handed, the lanky man held the machete in the hand furthest from her, if Clea bum rushed him and pinned him to the wall, it wasn’t particularly likely that he would manage to swing it ‘round at her in time. 

Hotchner would write her up for this, she could feel it in her bones. But she was supposed to be watching their backs. What good was someone watching your back, if they didn’t protect you when it was turned?

Up on her toes so her boot heels wouldn’t tap on the floor, Clea sprinted for the end of the hall. Smalls was caught completely unawares, screaming in surprise has she smashed him, face first into the concrete block wall. Grabbing his right wrist she twisted smartly until he released the machete and she could drag the hand up to meet his left as she clapped handcuffs on him. He smelled like stale sweat and blood. 

“Agent Summers.” Clea glanced up to see Hotchner and Morgan staring at her, almost confusedly. 

“Got him, sir. He came out of that bathroom after you’d passed by.” 

“Fuck you,” the pinned man screamed. He had pulled his face away from the wall and began to struggle violently. “Fuck all of you! They deserved it! You can’t arrest me for bringing justice!”

“Yeah, yeah asshole,” Morgan finally broke out of his reverie and pulled Smalls out of Clea’s grasp. Much taller and infinitely stronger, he managed to handle the struggling man better than she could. “Hotch, let’s get him up to the car.”

Agent Hotchner nodded and followed Morgan back upstairs, stopping only to nod at Clea with another inscrutable look. 

“The hell,” she whispered. “You’re welcome.”

Seeing as she apparently wasn’t going to be waited for, Clea snatched the machete up off floor and headed back towards the main entrance. Morgan had already loaded Maurice Smalls into the back of the van by the time Clea reached them. She held up the machete and Hotchner nodded towards the trunk, his cell phone already out, presumably calling off the search back in Petersburg. Or so Clea thought until she heard, “Understood. We’re just wrapping up here. We’ll have Agent Summers back by tonight.”

A trickle of dread followed the path of her spine. 

“Agent Summers,” Hotchner turned to her. “Director Strauss needs to in her office at 8am tomorrow. We should be back in DC by tonight.”

“Understood, thank you, sir.” Fuck.

Morgan gave her a death glare as they hopped back into the car. He had clearly heard that she had a meeting with Strauss, and this was apparently not a good thing in his books. Double fuck.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

“Agent Summers, thank you for coming.”

Clea could have said that she hadn’t had much choice, but she was certainly getting into the habit of keeping her mouth shut these days and it would be such a shame to break that now, wouldn’t it? So she winced a pseudo-smile in Director Strauss’ direction and settled into one of the chairs on the other side of the long conference table. 

“As you know, you’re here so I can keep you abreast of the ongoing investigation against SSA McNamara.” Strauss flopped back into the leather seat, rustling papers and the stiff pale green tweed of her suit coat as she went. 

“Yes. Thank you for taking the time.”

“Didn’t have a whole lot of choice since you decided to skip the chain of command and move this complaint up to my superiors.” Director Strauss had such a good face for bureaucratic bullshittery, Clea thought to herself. The smile she bestowed on the younger agent was so bland and at the same time so malicious. 

“Director Strauss, once again, I must reiterate that I did try to take this through the appropriate channels, but the situation was so urgent that…”

“Yes, yes.” A dismissive wave of the hand cut her off. “And you were right, a thorough investigation has proven your claims to be not entirely unfounded.”

“You mean he? Does that mean you know where they buried the bodies?”

“No one can prove that SSA McNamara covered up the deaths of Agents Green and Kaur. In fact, no one can prove that they are dead, officially they are still listed as missing.” 

Clea scoffed. “Then what the hell do you mean?”

“Agent, watch yourself. You have made no friends in this endeavor.”

Clea drew in a deep breath and took a sip of the stale room-temp water in the glass Director Strauss had laid out neatly next to a small pad of paper and pen, standard for any meeting. “Excuse me, Director. What do you, then, mean when you say my claims were not entirely unfounded?”

“Yes, well. There are discrepancies in logs and SSA McNamara cannot satisfactorily account for all movements of the agent in question on the days Green and Kaur went missing. However, we have not found any further indications of misconduct or criminal activity. He will be reprimanded and transferred to the Chicago field office. This investigation is officially closed.”

“Like hell it is!” The glass was across the room, smashing against the wood paneling before Clea even knew she was standing. “He covered up for Whitmer! You know it, I know it, the whole goddamn division knows it!”

“That is quite enough, Agent Summers. Max Whitmer has already been fired, your vendetta against SSA McNamara has borne fruit and he will be reprimanded for whatever actions he took…”

“Whatever actions? Reprimanded? You think two women’s lives are only worth a reprimand?”

“Agent Summers that is enough!” Strauss slammed a hand on the table and stood, shaking with a fury to match Clea’s. “This investigation has gone higher up the command structure than you even want to know, dozens of jobs are at stake because of your vendetta, not including yours, mine, and Agent McNamara’s. We, I, have done everything possible. This is the outcome. You will learn to deal with it or I will have you escorted out of the building immediately.”

The two women glared at each other, the silence stretching taut and thin as a drumhead between them. 

“Understood. Thank you, Director Strauss, for taking the time to keep me in the loop.” Clea spun on her heel, marching out of the boardroom and down the hall. Two floors up was the BAU, her bag, and the two letters she had tucked away inside. One needed to be delivered right now. 

“The hell?”

Clea jumped. The light hadn’t been on in Agent Hotchner’s office when she entered the bullpen and retrieved the sealed envelope from her satchel. She hadn’t even considered knocking before barreling in, but here was a disheveled Aaron Hotchner, sitting up dazedly on the leather couch, obviously just roused from sleep. His tie was slung across the armrest, shoes tucked neatly under the coffee table. 

“I---I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were here,” Clea was similarly dazed. She was on a mission, and having her breakneck pace interrupted left her staggering and off kilter. “I needed, that is to say, um, I was dropping this off for you.” She turned to set the envelope on his desk but then saw his hand out stretched and spun awkwardly to hand it over directly.

“And what is it that it couldn’t wait until the day started?” 

“My resignation letter, sir. Effective immediately.”

Hotchner’s dark eyes snapped up to meet hers, now fully awake and blisteringly sharp. “I know we got off to a rocky start, Agent Summers, but your performance in Georgia was…”

“It has nothing to do with how the division has been treating me like a pariah because you think I’m spying on you for Strauss.” Clea set drew herself up to her full height, not that impressive, she had always found that good posture and confidence did wonders to mask that particular failing. “That is to say, it is what precipitated this frankly abominable stay at the BAU, but I am not quitting simply because a bunch of short sighted analysts with egos that catch more air than their stupid fucking jet, were mean to me.”

“I see.”

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner for accepting my resignation. I’ll be on my way, no need to find someone to escort me.”

“How did you know we thought you were a plant?”

Clea’s hand was already on the doorknob and, god, did she want to push through and ignore him. “I would say it’s because I’m not an idiot, but honestly, as much as I shouldn’t fraternize with the police you all should learn to watch what you say in front of them.”

“Ah.” 

“Ah?” Clea parroted back. Hotchner was rubbing a large hand across his face, obscuring any expression that may have been couched there. 

“We have, well, I have and therefore the BAU has had trouble with Director Strauss for some time now. You wouldn’t have been the first person she sent to ‘keep an eye on us’.”

“Oh yes, I know all about how she handles internal investigations,” Clea spat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many other important things to do today.”

“You are not dismissed, Agent.” Hotchner moved behind his desk. 

“Sir, you have my resignation…”

“I do not accept it.” He tossed the envelope, unopened, into the trash. “You are too good at your job to walk out like this.”

“Sir, I can’t…I can’t,” Clea couldn’t figure out how to get her point across without making it sound worse than it was. “I am afraid I cannot do the things I need to do while also being employed by the FBI. I must resign.”

“What is it you need to do?”

Was this how unsubs felt across the table from Hotch in an interrogation? No wonder they almost always broke. Clea felt a familiar blush rise up the side of her neck as she struggled to keep her composure.

“The less you know the better.”

“If you are planning to commit a crime or harm someone,” Hotch began but Clea stomped her foot impatiently.

“For god’s sake, no, I’m not going to shoot the place up. Jesus. I have another letter I need to mail, to a news organization a friend of mine works at. There has been…justice is not being done. And will not be done, I’m afraid, until there is public outcry.”

Just saying it felt cleansing. Clea had kept this on the back burner for nearly six months, hanging in the back of her mind as a last resort, until it was nearly all she could think about. The letter had sat next to her resignation letter, in the inner pocket of her satchel, burning a whole through the letter and through her mind ever since she began to realize that the investigation would never amount to anything. 

Hotchner sat back in his chair, appraising her like a curator would at a potentially fraudulent painting. 

“Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

“Sir, I really need to…”

“Sit down and tell it to me from the beginning, Agent Summers. If, at the end, I agree that there is nothing more to be done within the Bureau, I will accept your resignation and you may proceed with your plan. If, however, I think the resources of the BAU could be used to help further your cause you will stay and continue to help us solve cases as we help you solve yours. Deal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting to the meat of the story! And the beginning of the end of my character assassinations. Three chapters of everyone being a jerk, whew!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves a Vera, I hope you have a Vera. Why are side characters always more fun to write than the main ones?

Chapter 5

The plastic bench upholstery at Tasty Thai creaked under Clea’s weight. The table was sticky. The waitress communicated solely in nods and nasty looks. It was perfect. Clea and Vera had found the miniscule seven table restaurant tucked up a side street during their first few weeks at the FBI. It wasn’t a secret, Tasty Thai was a favorite for ordering in lunches and late work dinners at the Bureau, but almost no one knew they also had seating. Or perhaps Clea and Vera were the only ones who preferred the privacy of the cramped, sticky booths to sending out for delivery. 

“So, you never told me how your first case went!” Vera playfully reprimanded her friend. “You ran out of my examination room and then I didn’t hear from you again for almost a week.”

“Oh, it was,” Clea searched for the right words. “It fucking sucked.”

“That blonde girl stayed bitchy?”

“The whole damn team! Listen, they bad talked me to the local PD when I wasn’t around, they barely spoke to me at all, and Agent Hotchner reprimanded me in front of everyone for ‘fraternizing’ with one of the cops! We were chatting and he made it sound like he walked in on me blowing the dude next to the water cooler.” Clea laughed and shoved a heaping spoonful of red curry into her mouth.

“The hell? I mean, are you going to request another transfer? You can’t stay in a work situation like that.”

“Oh, I didn’t request this transfer. Don’t get me wrong, the BAU is absolutely the most exciting department to work in and I was thrilled at the chance to join them, but Strauss was the one who pushed my transfer through.”

Vera looked at her suspiciously up from under her long black lashes. She rarely bothered to pay attention to living humans, Vera greatly preferred being steeped in her work and research, but those she knew well she could read like a book. She and Clea and latched onto each other in basic training and not let go, finding their senses of humor and interests fit together like puzzle pieces. Clea occasionally convinced Vera to get out of the house and Vera kept Clea grounded. 

“Strauss did, huh?”

“Yeah, after…you know, I reported for Michael about the verbal harrassment. Said it was better if I was in a different department because I was ‘making people uncomfortable’.” It was a lie. But it was the lie that kept Vera out of an investigation that she would charge into, heaven, hell, and bureaucratic egos be damned. Clea couldn’t get her best friend roped into this with her, she sincerely hoped that the only career she was going to ruin, besides SSA McNamara’s, would be her own. There was almost no hope of salvaging her own, she knew that the second she got push back on her original complaint. No one was going to want to work with her after this, there would be no promotions, no raises. 

The weird thing was, though, she suspected that Vera knew she was lying. That Vera accepted the “verbal harassment” story as code for “the thing I’m not talking to you about” and wasn’t pushing it. Vera always attacked problems like dog with a bone, gnawing until the splinters began to crack inexorably away, so Clea found her restraint incredibly confusing.

“Fucking bureaucrat.” 

“That’s why the BAU were such assholes, apparently. They all thought I was spying on them for her. Apparently she’s had it out for Hotch for quite a while.” The curry was just a little spicier than Clea would have wanted, which was exactly how it should be. Each bite brought a warm flush to her pale cheeks and left her tongue on fire. 

“Were such assholes?” Vera parroted back, letting emphasis fall on the past tense.

“Well, I guess. They’re, you could say, we are warming up to each other.”

“So they just decided you were too loudmouthed to be a spy, or…?” 

Clea threw a wadded up napkin at her friend who cackled and batted the projectile into a corner. 

“I have been very careful to watch my mouth, thank you. I was so calm during that case, you wouldn’t even have recognized me!” Clea sniffed with faux abused dignity. “No, what changed their mind was that I told them the complaint got me moved.”

“You what?” Vera gaped at her. “They warmed up to you because, instead of spying on them, you had the nerve to take an internal complaint up the chain? Girl, I know enough about law enforcement to know that internal investigations are never looked at positively, no matter how necessary.”

“Weird right? Apparently all they needed to know was that I’m not buddy-buddy with Strauss.”

It had been a shock to Clea too. She had left Hotch’s office that morning with his assurances that the BAU was behind her and a few somber and sincere apologies for his behavior. Both had left her speechless. It would never have occurred to her to ask for help. Her friends she refused to drag into the line of fire and who else could she have trusted with something like this? It absolutely baffled Clea that after laying the facts as she knew them out neatly in front of the man who had made her life a living hell for two weeks that he would immediately, and sincerely, offer to help. 

“In fact, shit, I better get back. We have a briefing at one,” Clea swore and shoveled the rest of her curry into her mouth. 

“Another mystery for the Scooby gang,” Vera teased. “But for real, Clea. I’m glad you’re feeling better about it. I’m here to kick anyone’s ass to Quantico and back for you, though, if they relapse and start being dicks again.”

“Aww, Vera…”

“Shh. Listen to me. I know you don’t want to come clean yet about whatever got you transferred.”

Clea gawped. Vera had known! 

“And if you don’t want to tell me that’s fine. I’m sure you have some stupid chivalric reason to keep me in the dark.”

“Vera, listen to me…”

“No, shh.” Vera emphatically cut her off again. “I’m being supportive, my therapist would be proud. So shut up and let me finish. Whatever is going on with you is obviously a big deal. People are asking around about you, the higher-ups. Had someone come down and ‘have a little chat’ with me last week, asking if I thought you were crazy or irrational.”

Clea’s eyes bulged. Oh, if I get a chance to take a swing at Strauss, Clea swore, I'll take out all the good Director’s front teeth and leave her looking like a hillbilly cousin. 

“I told them that you were the sanest person I knew. No, no need to thank me for lying. I’m obviously the sanest person I know.” Vera laughed and Clea wondered how she could be so flippant. “The point is, tell me or don’t tell me. Whatever. But if there is something I can do to help you, I will do it. Whether that is staying in the dark and verbally supporting you every chance I get or helping you tackle the problem. Just…please ask for help from someone, even if it’s not me. You look like death warmed over and have for months now. Whatever is stressing you is taking a big toll.”

Clea choked back a sob that even she hadn't seen coming. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Vera threw a few unused napkins at her. “No crying! You know I draw a line and visible displays of emotion!”

“You fucking weirdo,” Clea laughed through her sobs. She tossed a few of the napkins back at her discomfited friend. “Thank you. Really. I…I have asked for help. When I think it’s ok to talk to you about it, I promise, I’ll take you to for drinks and you can swear up a storm.”

She left her best friend in the FBI’s main lobby after lunch with a tightness in her chest she couldn’t play off as heartburn. There were thousands of people in this building alone and only two she could call friends. She could feel them the way she imagined an atom could feel it’s electrons, little points of energy zooming in circles around her just out of reach. Vera in the basement exam rooms, staunch and pugilistic. Michael, poor Michael, still trapped in Anti-Terrorism on the second floor, sweet and unflappable. Somehow, knowing they were there almost made her feel more alone as she walked across the marble to pile into an packed elevator with the after lunch crowd. But maybe, just maybe, up on the fourth floor, were seven more people waiting to become little points of light around her. 

“Clea, I was just coming to get you,” JJ said as Clea pushed through the frosted glass doors to their office. “Everyone is up in the briefing room.”

JJ had taken it like a champ the day before when, after leaving Hotch’s office, Clea had pulled her aside to “chat”. The blonde hadn’t denied that she had neglected to call Clea to warn her about the first case’s briefing nor apologized for lying to everyone and getting Clea in trouble for being late. But she seemed to consider the hostilities at a standstill. When Clea had arrived this morning JJ had even said hello! It was a marked improvement. 

“Good morning, everyone take a seat.” Hotch waved her and JJ in without looking up from his folder. Clea now knew not to take offense to this, the man apparently just refused to stop working, even when forced to interact with other people. 

There was a new chair tucked snuggly in between Reid and Prentiss! Clea’s heart soared, but she tried to keep her face neutral as she sat. Hostilities were at a standstill, indeed! 

“I hope everyone is packed, we’ve been asked by the Kansas City police to come help with a series of murders in and around the area, post haste.” As Hotch spoke Garcia went around the table distributing folders of information and pictures. “We’ll begin that briefing in a moment. However, I need to draw your attention to the second folder Garcia just handed out.”

She had, in fact, handed two out, one on top of the other. The second was smaller, with almost nothing in it. All of the agents frowned, puzzled.

“The second,” Hotch continued, face darkening into an even deeper scowl than usual, “is to do with an ongoing case we will be working on around our other assignments. What you see in that folder and our investigation of it, will not be discussed with anyone other than the eight of us, is that understood?”

“Hotch, what?” Morgan asked, instantly suspicious.

“Open it,” Hotch instructed. “In it are the Bureau’s statements regarding the disappearances of Agents Janea Kaur and Paula Green. It also includes a copy of the results of the Bureau’s internal investigation.”

Clea tensed as gasps filled the room. She had trust that Hotch knew his agents, that no one would go running or tattling or simply refuse point blank to bother with a new investigation. 

“Agent Summers was the person who originally brought a complaint about SSA McNamara’s negligence and possible covering up of this crime.”

All eyes shot towards her. 

“She was transferred here, out of Anti-Terrorism, because Strauss was worried she might continue to fight this. Instead of taking the story public, I’ve asked Agent Summers to give us the opportunity to investigate first. If there is anything to uncover, we can have the investigation re-opened new evidence.”

“Why though? There’s been an investigation already. The guy who probably killed them, he was fired, right?” Morgan flipped the folder shut dismissively. 

“There are many discrepancies in the statements and facts of this case.” Hotch’s tone brooked no questions. “It is my opinion that there is, indeed, more to discover. I will expect us all to work on this in and around our other cases. Read over the reports and get back to me with your initial thoughts after we return from Kansas City.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get some real BAU interactions this chapter! A gnarly new mystery and some fun banter.

Chapter 6

“I hope we end up having some free time,” Reid said, as he glanced to and fro excitedly from the back of the black SUV on their way to the police station. 

The small business airport they had flown into was in flood plain, under the intersection of several highways, next to the Missouri River. The setting sun had turned the wide river into a strip of molten gold, and it bounced a rosy glow up onto the brick and grey stone of the towering downtown buildings.

“Just over there, see?” Reid tapped Clea on the shoulder, apparently unsatisfied by her passive listening and needing her immediate attention. “Along the waterfront? That’s called the River Market. It was a base of operations for the mob for a long time, since the 40s, and there have been explosions that took out whole buildings. Heck, the serial killer Bob Berdella, used to have a stall selling weird knick knacks there and the rumor is he even sold the skulls of his victims.”

“You don’t say,” Clea raised her eyebrows.

“Well, that’s probably just a rumor. But! It’s still a vibrant part of the city, there’s a farmer’s market held there on Sundays. We might have some down time Sunday morning if…”

“What a romantic suggestion, Boy Wonder,” Morgan cackled from the driver’s seat. “Wanna spend a Sunday morning at the farmers market talking about one of the most disgusting serial killers in the history of this country?”

“I wasn’t…it wasn’t,” Reid blushed. 

“Actually, I lived here for a few years when I was a kid,” Clea cut in, trying to help the poor spluttering doctor to save some face. “I could show everyone the sights, if we get some free time.”

The look Morgan shot her in the rearview mirror was hard and cold. While most of the team had thawed automatically once they learned she wasn’t out to sink their department, Morgan still seemed to find her suspicious. Maybe he didn’t like that Hotch was getting the whole team involved in her investigation. Clea could understand that, even if she didn’t respect it. Or maybe Morgan was one of those people, like Austen’s most famous hero, who’s ‘good opinion once lost was lost forever’. 

Reid didn’t seem to notice, however, and excitedly latched on to her suggestion, coming up with more plans in a minute than they would be able to fulfill if they had a full free month in the city, let alone one morning. Clea was glad he seemed to have let the wisecrack roll of his shoulders. There had been more than one hint made by team members of Reid having a crush on her, though Clea didn’t see any evidence of it. The boy genius was, however, the closest she had to a friend in the group and Clea would be damned if she let anyone’s sly insinuations embarrass him and ruin that.

“You must be the FBI folks,” a walking coronary of a man strode forward, hand outstretched when they pulled up out front of the police station downtown. “Chief Walsh. Glad you could make it.”

Hotch did the introductions and they were ushered inside. Compared to the Georgia case, this felt like Heaven. They were assigned a swanky new conference room, with a long shining wood table to stretch their work out on and several of the glass dry-erase boards. There was a small coffee machine in one corner with a supply of Styrofoam cups and little pods of coffee, which was a step up from a never-cleaned break room coffee maker although it still tasted like shit, in Clea’s opinion. 

The first five victims’ pictures were taped up on one of the dry-erase boards already as well as a map showing where they lived and where their bodies were found. 

“There hasn’t been anything new in two days,” Chief Walsh said as they all found places to set down their briefcases. “And I tell you, it’s got some of us here on edge. If you have any ideas yet, we’re all hankering to get a move on, if you catch my drift.”

Local PD was getting antsy, not a good sign. Clea pursed her lips. It wasn’t her responsibility to soothe their frayed nerves unfortunately, she just hoped they wouldn’t do anything stupid like arrest the first person they came across and make a scene. 

“We want a chance to see the crime scenes themselves,” Hotch said. “Once we have a better understanding of the situation, we will brief your officers immediately.”

“May I go look at the remains?” Clea asked.

Chief Walsh snorted. “Such as they are. There isn’t much to look at. C’mon, I’ll walk you downstairs to where…”

“Chief! Chief, we got another one,” a young officer rushed in, her eyes wide. “In Swope Park again.”

“Clea, Morgan, Reid, you’re with me.” Hotch jumped in immediately. “Prentiss, Rossi, stay here with JJ until we get an ID on the victim, then I’ll need you to check out their home.”

Clea had seen the pictures on the plane ride over, everyone had. But the reality of it was…nope, not going to throw up in front of everyone. She dealt with dead bodies daily, but this honestly gave Clea the heebie-jeebies. 

Flapping softly in the breeze was what looked like a pair of women’s hose or one of those body suits fanatics wore to football games in their team’s colors. They had parked at the closest park shelter but had disembarked to struggle through briar patches and over slick little rock filled creeks to find the site. Clea was very glad that she had packed flats this time. 

Whole and nearly perfect, was an entire human skin, draped artfully up in the branches of an oak. There was still even hair attached to the scalp, the facial features picked out in careful detail, although no longer supported by any tissue or bones. As wind rustled the oak’s leaves the victim’s shoulder length blonde hair was blown about in a macabre, though entirely lifelike, way. 

“Female again, same length of hair and same color,” Morgan said, staring up at the remains. 

“Still off the beaten path a fair way,” Reid continued smoothly picking up where his colleague stopped. “Although the unsub must be aware that the remains are being found and we haven’t seen an acceleration or any other signs that this upsets him, he still insists on getting everything set up in what looks like a relatively secret place.”

“What do you mean?” Clea asked.

“Well, it’s a broad distinction with a lot of variance, but we could class disposal sites in two ways,” Reid didn’t bother looking up as he hunted for clues. “The very public ones, meant to draw attention and the private ones, where you would expect an unsub to come back and visit the remains. When we discover the private sites it often infuriates the unsubs because they can’t continue their ritual anymore as it includes specifically visiting the remains. I would have expected that someone who went through the trouble of setting up the remains in such a ritualistic way all the way out here would be thrown off their game by all the sites being discovered.”

“So it must be part of the unsub’s game plan, to have them found this way. Or maybe there are more that we haven’t found,” Clea mused.

“Perhaps, although every one has been discovered within a day of it…”

“Summers, what can you see from here about the body?” Hotch cut in to their musings.

“It looks the same as the other victims. Meticulously skinned, apart from the cut down the back, the skin is completely undamaged. You can see it curling up a little around the edges,” Clea pointed up towards the dangling heels, “But over all the skin has been well hydrated and maintained. I wouldn’t guess that the victim had been dead for more than a few hours.”

“So he rushes out here, immediately after killing them, there is no downtime at all.” Hotch mused.

“None,” Clea agreed. “The victim might not even have been dead a full half hour by the time he leaves.”

“You think he manages to be this precise of a job in just half an hour?” Morgan raised his eyebrows.

“Well, no, it would take hours.” Clea conceded. “But, well, while this sort of trauma would, of course eventually kill the victim, there is no evidence that they are dead when he starts.”

Off to the left one of the police officers vomited dramatically into a bush. Even Reid looked a little green around the gills at the thought and Morgan wrinkled his nose up in disgust. 

“Well, if the unsub follows his patterns, it will be another two days until another person is killed.” Hotch motioned for the forensics team to come in and begin the work of disentangling the remains from the tree. “Clea, I need you to take a closer look at the remains. Reid, Morgan, and I will stay here. Usually the unsub leaves the victim’s driver’s license at the scene but so far I haven’t spotted it.” 

“Understood.” Clea took a step back and her heel skidded on something. “Oh, you mean, like this driver’s license?”

“Oh good, stepping all over evidence,” Morgan scoffed. 

“It was under all these leaves!” Clea shot back, but she blushed regardless. That had definitely been a careless mistake. She hoped it wouldn’t ruin anything. 

“Enough, both of you,” Hotch snapped like a disappointed parent. “Summers, what’s the name on the ID?”

Snapping on a pair of gloves Clea reached down for the small rectangle of plastic. Shining up at her was a smiling, perky blonde. “Dana Scott,” she said quietly. Suddenly Clea didn’t want to look up at the remains in the tree, she wanted to turn tail and get back in the car. Back to the bright lights and sterile smell of the morgue where she could be objective and rational. This was…this was so different than she had imagined. But she schooled her face and handed the card over to Reid who had a small evidence bag open to receive it. 

They were going to find this killer, Clea swore. She was going to make sure of it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tense stand off between coworkers reveals that Clea hasn't been completely honest with the BAU about her motivations.

Chapter 7

“Are you going to stand there the whole time?” It was rude, but Clea had held her tongue for ninety excruciating minutes. No sooner had she pulled on her medical green coverall and gloves to begin examining the remains, such as they were, but Morgan had installed himself in a shadowy corner of the autopsy room, staring her down in silent watchfulness like a hawk above a field. His gaze itched between her shoulder blades as she moved methodically around the exam table until she couldn’t take it a moment longer.

“Don’t you have detective-y stuff to do? Ya know, upstairs? Or just, not here?” She snapped again, after her first salvo landed without effect.

“Maybe I’m just interested to see what new information you think you can provide. Tell me, what sort of unsub are we looking for?” Morgan’s chiseled face was still emotionless but his voice was thick with mockery.

“Look, if you don’t think I’m a useful member of the team by now, wasting two hours to intimidate me through an autopsy won’t change that.”

“You’re intimidated?”

“Being coy really doesn’t suit you, muscle man.” 

That did earn her a derisive snort and Clea chalked that up as a point on her board. 

“Why did you start looking into Kaur and Green?” The question wasn’t entirely out of left field, Clea had wondered during the last hour and a half if that was really what was on Morgan’s mind. His visible disapproval of Hotch’s instruction to look into the two agent’s disappearances had never pushed into verbal refusal to comply but those sharp eyes were more than eloquent enough. 

“Apart from them being in my unit? Being my friends? Apart from the obviously slapdash ‘investigation’,” Clea spat the word out with all the irony she could manage to convey, “which never led us to their bodies and ended in a confession with enough holes in it I could use it to drain pasta?”

“Yes. Apart from that.”

“Isn’t that enough?” 

“No.” Morgan stalked across the room to tower over her. “It’s not. You’re hiding something.”

Clea couldn’t stop herself from shrinking back. Despite knowing it was absolutely absurd, Morgan would attack her in the basement of a police station with their boss upstairs, but as he blocked out the light leaning over her Clea’s mind frantically catalogued everything within reach she could use as a weapon. Was it absurd though? She gulped. Janea and Paula probably thought their fear was absurd too. 

“Let me put it this way,” Morgan said. “You were supposed to be in the field with Whitmer and Kaur that day, but you called in sick. But how would you know the logs were faked if you weren’t there?”

“I---I---I can’t tell you.” Clea stammered, then cursed herself. What a stupid fucking response. “That is, I mean, I can. I just…”

“No. That’s plenty.” Spinning on his heel, Morgan was gone almost before Clea could reorganize her thoughts. She had never thought Agent Morgan was an idiot, but she had certainly classed him as the ‘muscle’ of the group. But he had seen through her so quickly. Was he going to tell Hotch? She had only just gotten his backing. This might be the only chance she had to get justice for Paula, for Janea. 

Upstairs though, when Clea finally pulled herself together enough to walk back into their conference room everyone seemed…fine. The group all had their heads together trying to pick out the unsub’s geographic profile. Reid and, bizarrely, Rossi, who she still hadn’t had a full conversation with, shot her small smiles of welcome as Clea sat her files down on the long table. So, Morgan hadn’t exposed her to everyone? Or had he? Maybe they were all just keeping quiet, not wanting to cause a scene in front of a the local PD? Frantic questions fluttered in her chest like canaries in a crowded pet shop cage. 

“Summers? Clea?”

Clea’s head snapped up.

“Are you alright?” Hotch asked. It sounded genuine. “We were about to finish up for the evening, if you need to get some rest.”

Still unused to be addressed politely by the team leader, much less considerately, Clea blinked in confusion before pulling herself together.

“No, no I’m good. Sorry. Um, here are copies of my report.” She handed a small stack to Prentiss, on her left, to pass around the table. 

“We have Garcia running names of butchers, taxidermists, and other people who might have this kind of skill,” Reid said. “Does that match with your findings?”

“Certainly.” Clea clung to the technical question like a lifeline. “The person who did this is extremely skilled, I would be surprised if they didn’t do something like this for a living or at least as a very involved hobby.”

“Anything else show up?”

“Mmm, what we all know already. That the victims were all roughly the same height, weight, hair color, etc. There was a bit of residue on the soles of Dana Scott’s feet, I’ve sent it out for analysis. I think it was a mold or mildew? Not that she had been somewhere long enough for it to grow on her or anything,” she added quickly seeing her colleagues crinkle their noses in disgust. “More like she walked through a damp basement or over wet rocks sometime right before dying.” 

“Will that help us narrow down the geographic profile?” Reid asked.

“We might be able to tell whether it is river water or if it’s ground water? We’ll have to see what the cultures say when they come back. How about you guys? Anything turn up?”

“Reid thinks our unsub reads a lot of obscure turn of the century novels.” Prentiss said, the teasing gentle and affectionate.

“Penny dreadfuls, yes.” 

“What is a penny dreadful?” Clea wasn’t even sure she had heard the term correctly.

“They were sensational stories printed in cheap periodicals. They covered macabre stories and were marketed mostly towards young men looking for something thrilling to read. I remember reading a bunch of them when I was thirteen, there was one, The Kite Man, that featured a man who made kites out of human skin.”

“Ugh, Reid! Who let you read things like that when you were thirteen?” Clea gasped.

“My mother gave up trying to monitor everything I read at age eight,” Reid shrugged. “There was just too much volume for one person to keep up with. And that sort of story was typical for penny dreadfuls. The story of Sweeny Todd was originally from a penny dreadful, and I’d argue that turning people into pies is more disgusting.”

“Alright everyone, that’s it for the night. Our hotel is just two blocks down, so grab yourself some dinner and hit the hay.” Hotch rapped his manila folder smartly on the table as he stood. “Summers, could you hang back for a second?”

Feeling distinctly the way she had in high school being summoned to the principal’s office over the intercom for the whole school to hear after swapping out the swim team’s shaving cream with cans of whipped cream, Clea sank slowly back into her seat as the other’s filed out. So Morgan had talked to them after all. 

“Now I know we all got off to a rocky start,” Hotch began after the door swung shut. “but Morgan…”

“Really, it’s fine,” Clea interrupted.

Hotch carried on unperturbed. “I was glad to hear that despite that you and Morgan had time to get to know one another a little better this afternoon.”

“Uh, right.” 

“We should have done this sooner, on that first case in Georgia, but I think tomorrow would be a good day to take you out with us into the field. Yes, you’ll generally be staying in to help with autopsies and other medical analysis, but it would be helpful for you to see how we operate.”

“I, yes.” Clea could have kicked herself for sounding like and idiot. 

“Morgan has offered to have you ride along with him tomorrow. He will be going to the areas the victims were last seen, asking questions of the businesses and homeowners to see if anyone saw anything unusual.”

“That would be great.” It would not be great, but how could she say that? Hotch nodded approvingly and stood, talk apparently over. 

“I’ll be staying behind to speak with Chief Walsh for a moment, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

It was not a good night. When Clea stumbled, bleary eyed, into the conference room at seven the next morning she headed directly for the coffee machine. She wasn’t any closer to answering why Morgan had lied to Hotch about their conversation during the autopsy or why he had offered to escort her around. Worst of all, she didn’t know when the shoe would drop and he would tell everyone. Because surely he would? This had to be a power play, she just didn’t know what his end game was. 

“Good morning!” Reid’s pep chapped at Clea’s exhaustion like sandpaper. 

“She’s with me this morning, pretty boy.” Morgan reached in between them and grabbed the little paper cup of coffee from Clea’s hands, downing it in one gulp. “No time for coffee, Summers, we need to get going.”

The murderous rage that sprang up in her heart must not have shown on her face because Reid cheerfully bid them a good day. So it was going to be like that today, huh? Clea gritted her teeth and followed Morgan out to one of their SUVs. 

No matter how annoying it was, she had to push past it though. That had been the conclusion her sleep-deprived brain had come to last night around four when she finally couldn’t stay awake any longer. Whatever Morgan had planned, he seemed to be biding his time and time was exactly what Clea needed. So she could go without sleep, without coffee, without the trust of her coworkers if it meant that the BAU had longer to look into Janea and Paula’s disappearances. Clea didn’t know how long she would have, before Morgan tried to discredit her again, but until then she had to work as hard as she could and make use of the considerable resources at her disposal. Even if it sucked. And judging by the malicious smirk on Morgan’s face as she clambered sleepily into the black SUV, today at least was really going to suck.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“So, all the victims were last seen down here or were known to be headed to this neighborhood?” Clea asked as the SUV pulled neatly into a parallel spot at the end of a very, very crowded street. Just a mile or two outside of downtown the little shopping area was a tight four blocks of the best the Midwest had on offer to the young and hip. Tattoo parlors were crammed side by side with coffee shops and bike stores. Just around the corners were endless refurbished craftsman bungalows and delicate Victorians, their porches overflowing with potted plants, Buddhist prayer flags, and rattan furniture. 

It was a sticky early fall day, there had been a little fog in the morning but Clea knew from her few years living here that the humidity and the temperature would soon become unbearable. Taking advantage of the relative morning cool, flocks of hip young things meandered with coffees and humble bragged to friends about their latest artistic endeavors on tiny tottery wrought iron café tables loaded with brunch that spilled out onto the sidewalks. 

“I’ll take this side of the street,” Morgan said, perfunctorily handing her a folder with copies of the victim’s photos. “When you get done with the other side, meet me back here.”

“But,” Clea replied, “Weren’t you supposed to be teaching me the ropes? Do you guys look for anything in particular? Do you ask different questions than I might have learned to? What’s the BAU’s special sauce?”

Even obscured behind dark glasses Morgan’s look of absolute contempt was clear as day. 

“Listen.” He leaned in, resting a strong forearm on the SUV and getting his head right down to Clea’s height. “I honestly don’t care what you do. I’ve got work to do, however. You won’t be around long enough to need the BAU’s ‘special sauce’.”

“Well, it sounds weird when you say it,” Clea muttered. 

Morgan snorted. “Whatever, Summers. Get to work.” He spun on his heel and was gone before she could argue again.

Alone on the bustling sidewalk she thought to herself, “fine, leave me to my own devices. That just means I can get a coffee before getting started.”

First up on her assigned side of the road was a multistory home reworked into a coffee shop and she felt like the universe had smiled upon her decision. The coffee, when she finally elbowed past the art students and yuppies, was nothing special but the baristas were all friendly and each stopped by in turn to look over her photos. Unfortunately, none of them had seen any of the young women. Clea did get an earful, however, of the types of colorful stories that can only be amassed working in food or retail and her spirits were high by the time she made it back out onto the street. 

The afternoon brought cloudless blue skies and the heavy humidity Clea had feared. Shimmering haze wavered up from the now almost deserted sidewalks as everyone hustled inside for the afternoon. She had struck out at record store, a hookah bar, and two tattoo parlors although the artists and guests were morbidly intrigued at both places and she had nearly had to pry the photos back out of their hands. 

Clea had caught glimpses of Morgan moving in and out of shops across the street and the SUV was still parked where she had left it, so he wasn’t finished yet either. There were a few cafes and a used bookstore on the next block. It wasn’t until she had convinced the man at the bookstore to call down his coworker who was stocking up on a different floor down that Clea finally got a break. 

“Oh yeah, I was wondering if that was the same girl. I saw a girl on the news the other day but I’m not that good with faces, sorry.” 

“It’s ok, Louis, take another look.” Clea slid the folder back over the sticky front desk towards the man’s nicotine stained fingers. 

Louis was tall, toweringly so, and thin as a dandelion stem. He grinned sheepishly down at her, “Sorry, I don’t know that I can really be much help. She just…” he gestured to the picture of the latest victim, Dana. “She looks a lot like a girl we had in last week.”

“What made her stand out?” Clea asked.

“Well, and like I said, I’m not that great with faces. But she came in all flustered, asked if we had bathrooms, and I told her we had one downstairs. She ran down there and didn’t come out until, geez, it must have been twenty minutes before the guy who followed her in had left.” 

“There was a man who followed her in?” Clea tried to keep her voice light, she didn’t want to make Louis nervous or lead him too much. “Do you think they knew each other?”

“Oh he wanted to know her,” the man who had been manning the front desk, Marty snorted. “Fucking creep.”

“I thought maybe he was her boyfriend?” Louis shrugged. “But he might’ve just been a creep. He asked if we’d seen a girl with chin length blonde hair and a light blue shirt on and even though we said no he kept pushing.”

“He obviously wasn’t her boyfriend!” Marty exclaimed. “Look at her, dude! She was way out of his league and a good fifteen years younger.”

“Weirder things have happened,” Louis replied petulantly, but Marty just scoffed.

“Only in your fantasies.”

“Marty, were you there for all of this?” She asked.

“I was in the back when she came in, so I didn’t really get a good look at the girl. She ran out pretty fast when she decided to leave too, just ran right out and up the block. But I got a good look at the dude, he was, eh…” Marty held a hand up to roughly Louis’ shoulder, “This tall. He looked old-fashioned, I guess? Handlebar moustache, very neat, three-piece suit but it seemed antique not new. Looked like a bit of dick and he acted like one too.”

“Hair color, eye color, any stand out features?” Clea asked as she scribbled the description down on a small pad she had pulled from her pocket.

“Brown-ish? His moustache was light brown at least,” Louis mused. “I remember it pretty well, I wanted to ask him what wax he used.” The tall man fingered the light blone wisps around his own mouth wistfully.

“You would,” Marty rolled his eyes. “Just brown hair, nothing too noticeable, and brown eyes. Oh! Why hadn’t we thought about that?”

He smacked Louis on the arm and laughed. It was all Clea could do to prod him, ask him to elaborate impatiently.

“His fucking hands, dude! Remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Louis nodded slowly. “When we told him to get out he started waving his hands and throwing a fit. He was missing one.”

“A hand…?” Clea clarified.

“No, no. Just a finger. On the left side. Pinky.” Marty said, waving his own hand dismissively. 

“And you guys don’t have cameras here, right?” 

“We have one on the back entrance, where we leave, and one of the register. Sorry.” 

It was depressingly typical for a retail store, so Clea just thanked them and rushed back out into the heat. Morgan was just about to enter a shop across the street and she shouted for him. When he didn’t slow Clea rushed across, narrowly missing a passing bicycle. 

“Morgan, wait! I might have just got a description of our perpetrator!”

“Unsub.” Morgan corrected automatically, but he did let go of the door handle and turn back to meet her. 

Clea explained her conversation with the two men in the bookstore excitedly. Would Morgan listen? Would he factor this into their pile of evidence? She wasn’t sure that even this could push past his distaste for her, but as soon as she finished he nodded and pulled out his phone.

“Hotch, yeah. We got a description from a shop owner down here.” He paused, listening. “Right. Yeah, we’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

They had sped back to the police station and for the first time Clea got to participate in giving the profile. Even if it was just a physical description and nothing in particular to do with her specialty, it was thrilling to feel like she was part of it. The team moved together almost as one, seemed to rent out corners of a shared mind like rooms in a split house. Sentences would be dropped by one and picked up seamlessly by another. While Clea certainly didn’t feel like she had a room in the house yet, maybe she had at least made it up onto the porch? That is, until Morgan decided to kick her off. And he would, the look in his eyes said he would eventually. 

She could see, though, that the job came first for him. Needing to find the unsub, save the vicitms, wrap everything up into a neat little bow, that was what drove him. It was a pity she hadn’t managed to hook him into her case, Clea could tell he would have attacked the problem like a shark, single-minded in the pursuit of prey. Until this case was over he wasn’t going to jeopardize the team by throwing in the curveball of Clea’s clumsy lie. 

The case was over far too quickly though. Less than twenty four hours later they had someone, a certain someone with a penchant for fancy dress and lacking a left pinky finger, in cuffs and were back on the jet. Still Morgan stayed quiet. Clea tried to focus on the novel she had brought but spent most of the flight staring anxiously out the window. Even when Reid came and sat across from her she couldn’t mirror his enthusiastic conversation for more than a few minutes before claiming exhaustion. 

The team filed back into the office in a ragtag line. It was only noon and they needed to get their reports written up before leaving for the day. Morgan went and sat at his desk like the rest of them, he didn’t follow Hotch up to his office as Clea had anticipated. What the hell was he waiting for? Anxiety scratched at her frontal lobe like a raccoon in a trap. 

“Hey there, Miss Thing!” The cheerful greeting nearly sent Clea reeling. She had never been into Penelope Garcia’s office, but had been in search of new pens in the supply closet and had to pass it by on the way. “I hear you were with Morgan when he cracked the case! Must have been exciting!”

“Oh, hi, Garcia,” Clea replied pathetically. Is that what he had told her? That he had gathered the identifying evidence on the unsub? What a massive piece of…

“Come in! You haven’t seen my lair yet, have you?” Garcia twirled in her office chair, legs stretched out like a child on a swing set. There was an oversized fake daisy tucked behind one ear and she wore massive earrings in the shape of fried eggs. But her hot pink smile was infectious and Clea found herself smiling along.

“I love this,” Clea cackled at an X-Files ‘The Truth is Out There’ poster tacked up on one wall. “I used to have such a crush.”

“Let me guess, on Scully!” Penelope grinned mischievously. 

“Hey now, let’s be fair, I had a crush on both of them.” Clea blushed hard. She tried to keep her work persona fairly neutral but apparently the chaotic bisexual was obvious even under boring suits and a thick layer of professionalism. 

“That’s fair,” Penelope agreed. “Glad I wasn’t too far off though,” She winked saucily. It was such a ridiculous gesture Clea barked out a laugh. Now that was something she hadn’t expected!

“Pen,” Morgan’s deep voice cut through the merriment. “I gotta talk to you.”

He stalked into the room and placed himself between Clea and Garcia, clearly signaling that it was time for her to leave. 

“Oh, sugar, we were just,” Penelope began. 

“Now, baby girl.” 

Clea threw her hands up in surrender. She just wanted to get home, do some laundry, eat take out, and go to bed. If Morgan left her a job to come back to tomorrow, she would come back. If not, she had had a plan to tackle this on her own to begin with. She certainly wasn’t going to trap poor Garcia in her office when she got into it with Morgan, as much as she would love to start throwing fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it time to change our warnings and add a tentative pairing? Maybe, maybe not just yet. On a team with so many pretty, fascinating people a chaotic bisexual might find themselves spoiled for choice!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

“Clea!”

Clea’s eyes jerked away from the man in the black jacket and baseball cap at the coffee shop’s counter. _Fuck!_

“Hey, Reid.” Clea tried to smile casually but her prey had already flinched at the sound of her name and was moving to leave. “I didn’t realize you lived around here?”

“Yep, I’ve lived here since I started with the BAU. I’ve never seen you here before either! Trying something new?”

The small talk sounded so painful for the man, social niceties studied with the same focus and attention he used for everything else and then meticulously applied. He was a Michelin starred chef arranging precise layers of casual tone and relaxed grammar around an ‘unexpectedly running into your coworker’ dish. It wasn’t something Clea or most people ever had to think about, but she could recognize how much effort it took him and she relaxed back into her chair. It wasn’t Reid’s fault her surveillance had failed, not really. Agent Isaacs was a paranoid bastard on the best of days and probably would have cottoned on to the fact that she was tailing him before too long.

“Well,” she stopped. Wasn’t she supposed to be utilizing the BAU resources? Why exactly was she up and halfway across town at eight AM on a Saturday by herself? “What are you up to this morning, Reid?”

The young doctor immediately latched onto the topic, “I was going to take my coffee down to this little park close to here. I’ve been waiting to start this,” He pulled a massive novel, The Three-Body Problem, from his well-worn satchel, “until I had a full morning to read it. I really want to take my time and enjoy it.”

Clea wanted to laugh at the idea of a morning being first, sufficient to read such a long book, and second, being considered an almost indulgent amount of time to do it in. But she didn’t want to be yet another person who shamed Reid for being different.

“So, not up for an adventure then?”

“What kind of an adventure?”

“Frankly, an adventure that is a lot like work.” Clea admitted with a rueful smile. “I was actually trying to follow someone when you came over.”

“Is this for,” Reid lowered his voice conspiratorially, “the Green/Kaur investigation?”

“It’s related.” Clea pulled out something from her own bag and sat it on top of Reid’s novel. “I’m pretty sure I know who has been sending these to me and I was hoping to do some surveillance this morning.”

She had carefully wrapped the letter, which had been tacked to her door a few days before, in a plastic evidence bag. Reid picked it up and scanned it.

“Is that blood?”

“Just pig blood,” Clea sighed. “Which isn’t particularly helpful. It certainly freaked out my new neighbors though.”

“Just the one word?”

“Yep, they’ve all just said ‘STOP’. Not particularly creative but it gets the point across. I tried to ignore them at first but my last landlord started to get complaints from my neighbors, especially once they began to be written in blood. The first couple were just in marker.” Clea shrugged. “The first week at this new place I thought maybe it was over, but he tracked me down.”

“You moved because of this? Does Hotch know? Does Strauss? That kind of intimidation…”

“Oh, Strauss knows about the early ones. I gave her several of them as part of the investigation. And I did have to report my change of address to the Bureau, so technically it’s available information to whoever has access to agent’s personal files.”

“And you think this man you were following does?” There were neurons firing behind Reid’s eyes although Clea didn’t know what puzzle pieces he was fitting together up there.

“He must?” Clea shrugged. “Actually, I’m going off a partial print left on a tack he used to put up one of the letters on my door. Sloppy as hell. I referenced it against the prints of folks in Anti-Terrorism and I’m fairly certain it’s Craig Issacs.”

“Have you asked Garcia to check if he’s been trawling through the personnel files?”

Clea paused. She hadn’t even considered it. “I mean, technically they are private but they aren’t that hard to access. I got into the system myself to see where Isaacs’ lived.”

“Yes, and you probably left an electronic trail. Let me call, Garcia, she should be able to tell whether Isaacs accessed your file. Then we’ll got check out his place.” Without waiting for a reply Reid pulled out his phone. Garcia picked up on the first ring and although Clea couldn’t hear much of what was said, the tech apparently agreed because Reid hung up with a determined smile. “She’ll call us back in a couple of minutes. Let’s get going.”

“She’s not even at work right now?” Clea sputtered and scrambled to follow Reid, who was packing up and preparing to leave. “And if you don’t want to do this, it’s totally no pressure. I don’t want to stop you from having a nice Saturday morning.”

It was a lie, she had been hoping that Reid wouldn’t be able to resist a good mystery, but she still felt a little guilty.

“Garcia doesn’t have to be at work to do anything, all she needs is a computer. I think she only comes into work because she likes to see all of us.”

They were out on the street, headed north past little boutiques and flower shops before Reid finished his thought. “And you don’t have to apologize for asking for help. Even if Hotch hadn’t told all of us to look into the case, I would be happy to help.”

Clea blushed. “Oh, ok. Well, if, I dunno, if there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

Reid also blushed and looked down at his battered converse. Clea decided to stop while she was ahead. Asking for help had never been easy for her but at this point she had to acknowledge that she needed it.

Isaac’s apartment was only a block away from the coffee shop. A tall, blunt building that didn’t suit the architecture of the rest of the street at all, with jutting false balconies at every window and a blocky grey and blue color scheme. It muscled on to the sidewalk, leering over the smaller brick storefronts on either side.

“If we’re looking to get inside,” Reid said while pretending to look a sweater in a store window, “The back is probably our best bet. The front will have buzzers and coded locks on the door, but the number of places I’ve been where residents prop open back doors to smoke or to make taking trash out easier…they might as well not have any security up front.”

Clea nodded, nerves beginning to rise in her stomach. She might be FBI and she might technically be a field agent, but she did spend most of her time in a lab. This wasn’t something she had done since training.

The heavy metal back door was propped open with a cinderblock, just as Reid had predicted. In their civilian clothes, coffees in hand, the people she and Reid passed in the halls didn’t spare them a second glance.

“How do we know he’s not home again?” Clea whispered as they stepped into the sixth floor hallway.

“Stay here at the top of the stairwell,” Reid angled her gently back around the corner. “I’ll go knock.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I’ll just say I have the wrong door, if he answers. He doesn’t know who I am, after all.”

Clea thought this was absurdly naïve but before she could argue, Reid was down the hall and raising his fist to knock on the door of 613. She held her breath but, after a few seconds with no answer Reid knocked again. Looking first left then right down the hall he slipped a small leather wallet out of his pocket and produced a small set of lock picks.

“Doesn’t the door have a coded lock?” Clea hissed as she scurried up to block the sight of her coworker’s illegal machinations from at least one side. To be honest, she was just as appalled at her own lack of foresight, obviously she would have needed a way to get into the apartment and the method had never crossed her mind. She would seriously owe Reid for this one. Why did he own lock picks in the first place?

“Yes, but there is also a regular lock for maintenance.” Reid didn’t look up, his meticulous fingers moving the lock pick searchingly. “There we go!”

The minute they closed the door behind them, Reid’s phone buzzed. “Garcia wants us to come over,” he said, glancing down at it. “Do you have time after this?”

“Do you? I’m the one who shanghaied you into this, remember?” Clea whispered back as she moved from the hall into the small living room.

“Yeah, of course. It’s no prob…” Reid and Clea froze at the sound of footsteps. Clea stumbled as Reid grabbed her and shoved her into the kitchen, to crouch behind the counter. Their panting breath sounded too loud to Clea and Reid’s death-grip on her upper arm was definitely going to leave bruises. The footsteps began again and then something thudded against the wall. It was, however, distinctly from the apartment next door.

“Oh thank fuck,” Clea sighed, standing to lean against the faux granite counter until she could calm her heart rate back down to normal.

“I didn’t expect these walls to be so thin,” Reid chuckled nervously, hand still on her arm. Clea could feel the heat radiating off him, he stood so close, hand burning like a brand through her thin cotton sleeve. He smelled good, she noticed, and blushed for the second time that day. _For fucks sake, Clea_ , she mentally berated herself. _This is about as far from the appropriate moment as possible!_

‘Let’s finish up and get the hell out of here,” she said, pulling back. “Who knows when Isaacs will get back?”

Reid nodded but took an extra second before finally releasing her arm. “Get the bedroom and the bathroom,” he said quietly. “I’ll check out here.”

Clea nodded and all but fled to the back of the apartment. Anything to disrupt the unexpected tension and give her time to get her professional face back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their methods may not be legal but is half of the shit people get up to in procedural shows? Maybe the real evidence was the unexpected coworker crush we found along the way?


End file.
